Be Gone, Bygone
by kusegoto
Summary: (Мор. Утопия / Pathologic) Notkin decides to scout for the plague map himself. If you got to do a job, you better do it yourself, after all. Notkin/Khan from Pathologic 2. Entirely SFW.


His exploration gear is as follows:

One brown coat, stitched up by the old man;

A large piece of paper, swiped from the store;

Jester (of course! — immune to sickness, but not poison);

A large piece of charcoal, also swiped from the store;

A box of meds that is not a powder, but maybe, probably, swiped from Grief;

And in his bag, he goes.

Threats from adults, even if they look like the old man, mean nothing to him. In fact, Notkin would suggest that threats from adults that look like the old man mean even less than normal threats from adults, because the old man was the old man, who was completely different. Just because you're toting his blood and his eyes don't mean you've got the same authority. And that is true above all else. What's a Soul without a bit of defiance? Rebellion, if there's enough to rebel against.

The threat is a threat, you see, because the old man's son said that he shouldn't go to places where he's always gone. What's a plague going to do to him? Notkin's lived through two waves and one infection. By record on the town, he's more of a miracle than Clara. And she's got healing hands, and shoes full of bones. Nothing's going to come for him, according to the worst of the worst.

They don't barricade the different districts completely, but he knows by now that he'll just get sent back with a rock or two if he tries such a stupidly forward approach. But there's a reason he's got the cat at his side; it's easy to get himself through the holes in the fences. The wood is old, moves easily, and seems like it's missing most of the nails that are meant to keep it together. It's always nice to slip through some good old fashioned wooden beams — the fences in the warehouses are steel sheets, leftover from construction before he was... born? Wandered into town? He likes to think he just came upon the town one day, even if it isn't the most coherent tale to tell.

His pant leg gets stuck on a splinter. He lifts it off and continues on the road.

He's already got his boys to draw out the approximate layout of houses and streets. It's just a matter of colouring it all in. Scouting through sickness makes his throat itch, and the hairs on Jester body jump up. Notkin sits on what feels like a fresh pocket of air — maybe it's the smoke rising from the bonfire around the house he perches behind. It's probably not a house, but who knows? People are finding different places to d in these days. A home is a home if you'd make it a tomb.

Somewhere, glass breaks. He doesn't really care, since it's far enough from him. Where is this? The Gut, the Spleen? That's what Spichka calls everything. He could've been fun to run with, but as the older ones say, let bygones be gone.

The red chalk stains his fingertips the way the wet red of open injuries does. He feels like the doctors, both the healers and the quacks that try to help their loved ones. He paints in wide strokes, taking a moment to pull his coat over his mouth to take a needed breath, deeper than the shallow ones he's been trying to take. It might be a yawn. It's quite late. Early, because he slept. Late, because it's dark.

Jester grumbles something, the way he does when people are looking their way. Notkin slips from the pocket and covers his mouth with his sleeve, crouching down. There's a stone ledge that protects him from being seen, and he peers up over the shadowy rock to the shapes of people. And they're grown up, too. The worst kind of sight.

With a careful step, Notkin slips from the wood and around a moulted pillar, and sees the shapes linger at a building — neither a house nor a tomb, the history of the town lingers in there with children. Mostly Dogheads. He frowns at the implication of it all.

The men continue to walk, though their heads turn back to watch the door. There are no lights on, which is normal, because even Dogheads aren't dumb enough to turn the lights on where grown-ups could see. He doesn't remember what ridiculous three-knock password they have now, but he opens the door, anyway, once he walks across the road.

"Hailing," he says, quiet and hushed so the strangers can't possibly hear, holding up an arm over his face, anyway. Who knows how bad a scared dog can hit.

Quite immediately, he sees it's empty. Empty until the door is opened and then closed, because Notkin sees him. He makes a face at Khan, and folds up the map he was careless enough to forget was in his hand.

Khan keeps his head down. "Why are you here?"

"Working," Notkin says, almost proud. "Got my scouts on the western side. What's your reason? Is it scary at night, to walk up the steps?"

"You're an idiot," Khan says. He sits on the ledge of the stage, a small collection of stairs and planks with a banister nobody bothered to fix. His legs sway down in the musty darkness below. "I already told you I'm not going back up when I've almost gotten sick."

"But you aren't anymore. Are you?" There's a desk. He doesn't set his bag down, but he does steal the stool.

"I never was." Khan almost pointedly looks away from where Notkin takes his seat. "Also, we're on the west side. You're from the east. Do you even listen to anyone?"

"Yeah," he retorts, with a deep frown on him. "Just making it make sense, sense maker."

"I've been living here. My father doesn't know I'm here, yet. It's to keep my people safe." Khan kicks his foot again. "You don't seem too interested in doing that."

"We've all put ourselves in the gutters, rolled around in it. Equal is equal." Notkin starts to fold the map, which is well crumpled and already quite folded up, and sets it inside his bag. The chalk follows soon, and he sees just how red his fingertips are. "What about the dogs? Are they equal?"

"I hate how you talk."

"I hate the muddy water by the Halfway's house. Can't get a good drink of anything. Since Bad Grief's run across town, nobody's gotten it fixed."

Khan folds his arms and leans on the narrow stick of the banister. "So you shouldn't be picking on where I've chosen to _war-and-teen_ myself. You might get me sick."

"Don't the walls get you sick?"

"Sometimes, when it gets bad. Is it bad out there?"

"I'm using red to keep it clear. Yeah, it's pretty bad." Notkin closes his bag shut. "Your pops don't know you're here? What about your sister?"

"Probably does. She's starting to see things."

"What kind of things?"

"I don't know. She talks about it, I think, but none of it makes sense. So she probably knows where I am."

"Huh." Notkin sits up straight. "Couple of guys outside, then. Walked past and looked up and up on this place."

Khan's composure seems to shift. "Did they look like bandits?"

"Ain't every adult a bandit?"

Khan says a bad word that makes Jester grumble. He jumps off the ledge of the stage and lands on his feet, before kneeling down under the stage. "Get over here, will you? We should hide."

"That's ridiculous," Notkin says, warily lifting up his bag. "They aren't going to come in."

"Do you even want to risk that? Hurry up."

With a pointed eye roll, Notkin takes long steps across the room, and crouches down to crawl under the stairs. There's a pillow wrapped ugly yellowed cloth, and a hempen blanket lain underneath.

"You sleep here?" Notkin asks.

"Usually, yes." Khan brings his knees up to his chest to give Notkin room. "Sometimes I'll nap in the chair, but that was only twice."

"So not at all?"

The door opens.

The way Khan jolts could almost cause him to bump his head on the roof. Notkin looks towards the door, with a hesitant grimace — the slots between the steps are barely enough to obscure them down here. If they weren't sitting on the blanket, they could throw it over themselves.

Before the door can open too far, Notkin grabs Khan's shoulder, pulls him in, and hides them behind the drape of his coat. Khan gasps shallow and deep, but both settle in their hiding spot.

"Door's unlocked," a voice murmurs.

"Kids come here all the time. Probably lost the keys," another says.

Both sound like men. Gruff and hard and bringing the stale taste of the outside in. The door shuts, heavier than usual, and without lifting his head, Notkin recognizes the sound of heavy bags dropping on the strange concrete.

"Weird fucking walls," one says.

"Who the fuck knows what these kids are up to," the other grunts. "They're all creeps."

Khan frowns against Notkin's shoulder.

"Don't want to stay here long. Gonna get jumped by one of those dog kids. Or one of them sick bastards in them streets."

"What'd you find?"

Notkin glances at Khan once more, while the intruders shuffle through their bags of stolen lives and missing memories. Khan is taller than him, but ducks his head low under the flank of the coat. Notkin realizes his arm hurts. Would be easier to hide under the full coat like a blanket, but they don't have the time for that now. Dogs and cats don't cower together until the adults break down their shelter, so it would seem.

Notkin peeks from the sleeve. The shadow is enough to hide his dirty hair, as he watches the men sort buttons and wrapped bundles of scavenged food. He can see the knives dangle from their hips. What did Grief once say? Dressed for a red harvest?

Khan elbows him to drop back down. One of the men grunts, but it doesn't seem like he noticed, because they don't go searching for the intruding intruders. It doesn't take long for them to discard what they don't need on the floor.

"Maybe they'll think it's all their toys," one of them jeers.

"Bunch of buttons and thimbles. Don't think anyone even comes 'round here anymore." The sound of spitting. "'Specially tomorrow. Gonna be a sickbed all over this side of town."

The creak of an opening door. The bitter taste of sand and ash, even from under the coat. "Come on. Middle of town by dawn?"

"Probably."

Another sway of creaking, and then silence. Notkin pokes his head over his sleeve once more, and finally allows his arms to drop. He can feel the blood roll through his arm and wrist as it takes shape again. Stretching out his legs, he looks over at the curled Khan next to him. Khan stares at the edge of the blanket below Notkin's bag, bulging full of his own tracking tools (chalk) and parchments (a child's map).

"Not a fair lot," Notkin muses.

"Hm? Oh, yes, I suppose." Khan stretches his legs out, too. His knees bend as his shoes press on the back of the steps. He suspiciously doesn't lift his head to look at him "Did you recognize them?"

"Everyone's starting turning on each other. No turncoat I recognize," Notkin admits. "Could've been a Barber. Don't really know, or reckon."

"Of course..." Khan finally lifts his head, and hurriedly looks away. Notkin frowns, but doesn't make anything of it.

"Gonna stick to sleeping on the floor? Can't say it's unfamiliar," Notkin admits, as he opens his bag. Out comes the chalk and paper, and he lays it across his knees to match with Khan's. "Mind if I finish colouring?"

"You're such a kid," the child son of Victor Kain says.

"Whatever's gonna keep the peace," Notkin continues. The chalk bends the soft paper when he goes to mark large swaths of disease over the neighbourhoods surrounding where their approximate location is. "Gonna be selling these things. Pretty penny for a pup like this."

"Who's going to buy it? Seems like it'll just get swiped away by the Barbers." Khan frowns as Notkin continues his colouring.

"The guy. Burakh. You know he's gettin' a half?"

"Maybe two halves will get him a whole head," Khan replies.

"Maybe. Hold on to the corner, you doghead."

Khan nudges Notkin's hand away with a gentle push as he places his own over the corner of the map, stretching it tighter to give Notkin less slack. In the shadow of the stage, they mark their map together.


End file.
